by Cheryl Bolen
He shrugged. “What with paying the livery fees, this is costing us a great deal of money.”
They strolled to the drawing room.
“I had no notion how expensive renting a hack could be.”
Though he wanted to ask what necessitated her having to rent the public conveyance, he would be patient and wait for her to satisfy his curiosity. “Perhaps we should reconsider getting our own carriage.”
She pursed her lips. “It's a pity we don't live closer to my parents. If we did, we could use their mews and their grooms.”
“And have your parents feed Andy, too?” He scowled. “It's a great deal cheaper to pay livery stables than to purchase a house closer to your parents.”
“We are fortunate that Mama gave us this one.” She linked her arm through his. “Do you like the house?”
He peered down into her face. He could see his reflection in her spectacles. “It's a lovely house, and we are very fortunate. You will not be happy to learn, though, that our lone servant has been called away.”
Daphne's brows lowered. “I hope it's not something terrible.”
“I'm afraid her mother is gravely ill.”
“Poor dear.” She gazed up into his face. “We are so blessed. You and me.”
When was she going to tell him about her meeting with Sir Ronald?
“Come and sit beside me on the sofa and tell me about your meeting with Lord Castlereagh.”
The faded green silk sofa thy sat on was situated near the hearth, but there was no fire. “His lordship was happy that we had made so much progress, and he was gratified that we determined that Heffington's list must have made it to London.”
“So far, our guesses have been rather brilliant.”
His brows lowered.
“I cannot use that word even when it is just the two of us?”
“A man's accomplishments should speak for themselves.”
“I don't suppose a wife should gush about her husband's successes, but if others want to praise you, I see nothing wrong with that.” She shrugged. “Allow me to change the topic of our conversation. I only thought of it this morning, but I thought perhaps it might be significant.”
“What might be significant?”
“We know that Mr. Prufoy—who does sound like a remarkably noble fellow—delivered the major's things to his widow.”
He nodded, his brows hitched.
“Because we have learned that Mr. Prufoy was so incredibly admirable that he would not even sully my sister's name—and God knows she deserved it—it is highly unlikely he would ever have told other men that he was in possession of Cornelia's torrid letters.”
“I agree, but I don't see what you're getting at.”
“What I'm getting at is that it just may be possible that when Mr. Prufoy was returning the dead major's things to the widow, perhaps someone else was paying his condolences—someone who knew about the major's adultery with my sister—and this disreputable person who must have been in need of money ascertained that Mr. Prufoy might be in possession of those letters which could be worth a great deal of money.”
Now she really was being brilliant! “There's one way we can find out.”
Her countenance brightened. “I can ask Mrs. Styles!”
“Perhaps I should.”
“Because you supposedly served with her husband?”
“I won't actually lie.”
She cupped her hand into his cheek. “I know you won't.”
Why could his wife not be as honest as he? Her little prevarications never hurt anyone, but they could be most vexing. He was reminded of the time she told her father Jack could speak Hottentot but had neglected to tell Jack.
Why had she not disclosed to him that she had secretly met with Sir Ronald?
“Now, Lady Daphne,” he said, his voice stern, “I would like to know where you went in the hack.” And what in the bloody hell were you doing with Sir Ronald?
She did not answer for several seconds. “I went to my father's solicitor. He's outrageously clever about procuring the most capable staff imaginable.”
His hopes sank. Was she not going to admit to meeting Sir Ronald? “Then we will soon have servants to light our fires and answer our door?”
She shrugged. “I don't know how soon. These things take time. I think you completely agree that we had to wait until we returned from Spain to hire staff?”
“Of course. We had no way of knowing our return would be as quick as it was.” He wondered if he should just come right out and ask her what she was doing inside that coach with Sir Ronald. Now, if Sir Ronald had resembled the duchess's short, portly, bald-headed duke, Jack would not have gotten his hackles up, but Sir Ronald was acknowledged to be the most handsome man in the ton.
And Jack did not like his wife sitting within the intimacy of a hired hack with that damned baronet!
“And where else did you go?” he asked.
“I wanted to get back to my husband as quickly as possible.”
He felt sick. She was lying. He got to his feet.
“What are you doing?”
He was so angry he could shake her. They had been married not quite a week, and already she was lying to him. What kind of foundation was this upon which to build a solid marriage? Yet, if he questioned her and became accusatory, he would be culpable in destroying the trust which should be the backbone of a good marriage. “I'm going to visit Style's widow.”
“At least let me give you the direction.” There was impatience and something else—veiled anger?—in her voice.
He had best get out of there before he exploded.
* * *
His wife's description of the widow had been most accurate. What he had not counted upon was his own shame. God, but he hated to lie! And while he had not exactly told Mrs. Styles he had known her husband, he had allowed her to believe they were acquainted.
The two of them had sat there in her drawing room, hatchments heavy over her windows, as they spoke of her dead husband. “It's a terrible pity that now his batman is dead, too,” Jack said.
“Indeed it was! I had just seen him the day before he died.”
“Would that have been when he was returning your husband's things to you?”
She nodded solemnly and dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief she kept in her hand. “Prufoy was devoted to my husband.”
“From all accounts he was a very fine batman.”
“My husband often said Prufoy was the finest batman ever to serve.”
“It is most difficult to come by a good batman. In that your husband was fortunate.”
“That's exactly what Lord Lambeth told Prufoy that day.”
Jack's pulse accelerated. Daphne's hunch was right! The culprit had been visiting the widow on the day Prufoy returned her husband's effects. Fanny Hale had told them Prufoy was to deliver the list to a lord. Lord Lambeth must be Prufoy's murderer and the duchess's blackmailer!
His brows elevated. “The day Prufoy brought your husband's things?”
“Yes. Lord Lambeth was my husband's greatest friend.” She shrugged. “He was ever so kind in expressing his condolences. It made me regret that I had not always held the viscount in great affection. I often blamed him for keeping my husband away from me, for keeping him in the clubs where both of them lost more at play than they should have.”
Bulls eye! He could not believe he and Daphne had been back in London but one day, and they had already determined who possessed the list. Not they precisely. Daphne had done a damned good job of analysis.
And, damn but he was angry with her!
He thanked the widow for seeing him and took his leave. Each minute he was away from Daphne his fury increased. Why was she deliberately deceiving him? In the mood he was in, he was apt to start a terrible row with her.
Not far from Mrs. Styles' he saw the swaying red and white sign for the White Lion public house. He was just mad enough to get stinking drunk, but of course he wouldn't. A bumper of al
e might serve to calm him.
As he entered the White Lion, he sensed that he was being followed. He strode to the bar, and just as he was about to speak, an unkempt man of his own age ambled up beside him. “I have something for you from an old friend.”
Jack whirled to face him and saw that he was missing a front tooth—just before the man's fist came crashing into Jack's face. It came so unexpectedly, Jack was not able to brace himself but went falling back.
Then from the other side, two more men of similar age, build, and shabby clothing closed around Jack and began to pummel him with their fists. Three against one.
And one of the men had a knife.
Chapter 10
The fragment of light that penetrated his darkness grew brighter until he began to realize he was not dead after all. He became conscious of voices. Daphne's. Which made him happy. Then Sir Ronald's deep voice intruded with the discordance of a shrieking cat at a harp recital and made him doubly conscious of how bloody, bloody bad off he was. He understood what it felt like to be cannon fodder.
He was quite certain his ribs had been shattered because his meager effort at moving sent a surging pain the length of his trunk, and each breath he took was like the stab of a knife. His throbbing head felt twice the size of normal. And his hands! God, but he'd fought for his life. It was some consolation in his misery to know he had given almost as good as he got.
Or as bad as he got. Had it been an even fight, Jack knew he would have been standing now, not lying there like a helpless woman.
Before Jack could attempt to integrate into the rest of his world, he wanted to remember. Remember what? What was his last memory? Anger. Daphne had lied to him. He'd left her. There was another woman. . . oh, yes. He'd met with Major Styles' widow. Then what? The tavern!
His last recollection was those three men closing around him as threatening as a noose. His hands fisted at the memory. Just like with Prufoy, it hadn't been a tavern brawl. It had been a deliberate attempt to do murder.
“Oh, look, Ronnie! He's moved.”
It was his wife's excited voice. And she had called that womanizing rake Ronnie! Jack fleetingly wished it had been Sir Ronald's handsome face that had been beaten to a pulp at that damned public house.
As long as that man was wherever it was they were, Jack had no desire to talk to either of them. Or to open his eyes. Then something occurred which sliced through his resolve as easily as the severing of Sampson's hair.
He heard Daphne cry.
And all he could think of was reassuring her.
His eyes came fully open. Nothing had ever looked lovelier to him than the sight of Daphne standing there, her eyes red from crying. Over him. As he peered at her, he suddenly realized she was not wearing her spectacles. Was she attempting to make herself lovelier for Sir Ronald? “Where are your spectacles, madam?” Jack asked, his voice icy. Calling her madam did give him a heady sense of possession. And it reminded that damned baronet that she was a married woman.
She pulled her spectacles from a pocket in her skirt, put them on, and offered him a feeble smile. Then she came to sit on the side of the bed and gently stroke his face, her tears still gathering until they spilled down her cheeks. “How are you, my dearest?”
“Bloody awful.”
“We had the physician here. He seems to think you've escaped fatal injuries to your lungs or heart. Tell me what hurts.”
“It would be easier to tell you what doesn't.” He still refused to look at that lecher who was married to his wife's sister.
“Are you aware that it has been almost four and twenty hours since I last saw you?” Daphne asked.
Good God! How long had he been unconscious? He shook his head . . . and wished he hadn't. Even the slightest movement hurt.
“'Twas the worst night of my four and twenty years.”
It served her right. It was all her fault. He would never have stopped at that public house had she not infuriated him with her lies. It would have been her just desserts if he'd bloody well been killed!
“When Cornelia and Virginia were little, one of them could always tell if something happened to the other, even when they were not near each other. I understand that now. I knew when you did not return home in a timely fashion last night that something terrible had befallen you.” Her voice broke, and she began to sob.
How could he stay angry with her? He reached for her hand . . . even if it did cause him considerable pain. “There, there. I am here now, and that's all that matters.”
“Would it hurt you if I try to embrace you?” Her voice had a girl-like quality about it.
“Let's see.” They would show that Sir Ronald!
She eased close to him, ever so gently, and did not elicit even a wince. When he went to put an arm around her, he discovered he could not.
“Does it hurt?” she asked.
He nodded.
She pressed her lips to his forehead.
“How did I get here?”
“Sir Ronald brought you.”
To Jack's bedchamber on the top floor of their townhouse? It would have been no easy feat to lug a man who weighed fifteen stone up two flights of steep stairs. Jack stiffened, and grudgingly allowed himself to make eye contact with the tall, way-too-masculine looking man. Jack inclined his head. “I am obliged.” That was the most he could manage toward the blasted rake.
“When you did not return, I was half out of my mind.” Daphne said. “I couldn't leave the house because I wanted to be here if you should return, if you should need me.” She shrugged, her voice hitching. “I finally had enough presence of mind to get a street urchin to deliver a note to Sir Ronald.”
The baronet moved closer to Jack's velvet-draped bed. “I came straight away. Lady Daphne gave me Mrs. Styles' address, so I went to question her. She told me you'd left before dark.”
“He came back and told me,” Daphne said, stroking her husband's hair. “I was able to convince Sir Ronald that you must have met with foul play between here and Mrs. Styles' house. He obliged me by investigating every possible diversion.”
“It was nearly midnight when I found you at the White Lion.”
“Were the men who attacked me still there?”
Sir Ronald shook his head ruefully. “The proprietor said he'd never seen them before. Apparently he and some other patrons were able to get them off of you before they succeeded in killing you. The three of them then fled.” Sir Ronald paused. “The men at the White Lion said you'd put up the most valiant fight they had ever seen. You left your three assailants half crippled and hobbling away from the establishment.”
Though normally a modest man who disliked any reference to his skills, just this once he rather relished such a narration in front of his wife.
“Which came as no surprise to me.” Daphne beamed at Jack. Then her voice turned serious. “You know, my dearest, you may have been right about the duc d'Arblier being in London.”
Her words were like a blow to his windpipe. Of course he'd been right! The duc wanted Jack out of the way. Did that mean the duc wanted to be sure he got the list before Jack? If that were the case, then it wasn't too late.
As wretched as he felt, his wife did something that made him forget the maddening pain. She lifted his hand and pressed nibbly kisses into his palm.
Their eyes met and held. And he knew she was deeply in love with him.
“Can you tell me what you learned?” she asked sweetly, then her gaze skipped to her brother-in-law. “Since Sir Ronald is the first undersecretary to Lord Castlereagh, he is acquainted with our mission, and I've had to apprise him of what we've been doing.”
Jack met his wife's quizzing gaze and nodded. “You were right.”
Her (still reddened) eyes widened. “About Mr. Prufoy meeting one of the major's friends at the widow's house?”
“Yes.”
She waited for a moment. “Well, who was it?”
He most certainly did not want to tell her as long as Sir Ronald was
in the room.
Give the man his due. Sir Ronald had the goodness to clear his throat and say, “Dear me, I'd best be on my way. Or my wife will become as hysterical as you were last night, Lady Daphne. Daresay it's a Sidworth family trait.”
Hysterical? His Daphne? Because of him? While news of his wife's distress would normally not be balm to his wounds, on this day it was.
She spun around to face the baronet. “I am destitute of words to thank you for all you've done for us.”
“It was nothing.”
Carrying a man who weighed fifteen stone up two flights of stairs certainly was something! The arrogant man was fishing for a compliment from Daphne, and Jack prayed she would not play to his vanity.
“Why, you carried my husband to this room with no assistance. You were wonderful!”
Jack was destitute of words for the man, too. Did that cocky Sir Ronald Johnson have to single-handedly haul Jack into the house? No doubt it was a ploy to display his uncommon strength. The man was already noted for being a talented pugilist as well as a skilled swordsman. Had he no modesty?
Jack would wager he'd swaggered when he carried him up to the third floor!
Good manners, though, demanded that Jack express his gratitude. “Good of you to see me home.”
“Think nothing of it, my dear fellow. I shall talk to Lord Castlereagh to see it he's heard any reports about d'Arblier being in London.”
After Daphne walked Sir Ronald to the door, she came back and sat on his bed, drawing his hand into hers. “Do I know the man?”
She was entirely too curious. “What man?”
“You know very well what man! The one who was at Mrs. Styles' house when Mr. Prufoy brought her husband's things.”
“Oh, that man. How am I to know if you know him?”
“What is his name?”
“Apparently he's some kind aristocrat because he's a Lord Something or Other.” He loved leading her on.
Her brows elevated. “Lord Who?” She made no effort to conceal her impatience.
He remembered very well the man's name—despite all that he'd been through since the moment the name had been emblazoned upon his memory—but he was going to tease her a bit more.
